


in your hands

by pistolgrip



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Haircuts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 10:55:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14932904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pistolgrip/pseuds/pistolgrip
Summary: Resting his head on Siete's arm, Six curls up next to him on the bed and closes his eyes. Siete starts combing a hand through Six’s hair, pushing it up so he can press kisses onto the nape of his neck. “You’re starting to get overgrown. It’s been a while since I’ve cut your hair, hasn’t it?”“Tomorrow,” Six mumbles, voice thick with sleep, burying his head into the pillow. Laughing under his breath, Siete moves an arm down around his waist and brings him in.





	in your hands

The bathroom attached to their quarters hardly has enough room for the two of them, but there’s nowhere else on the ship where Six is comfortable getting his hair cut. He leans over the bath, holding the shower head over his own head as Siete shampoos his hair.

It’s a bit uncomfortable, but Six doesn’t seem to mind it too much, judging by the little pleased noises he makes every time Siete digs his fingers into his scalp, rubbing shampoo in. Unable to stop himself, he leans down and kisses him between his shoulder blades, and Six chuckles. “Unprofessional of you.”

“You keep making cute noises.” Six huffs, and Siete gets the sense that he would want to turn his head away if he wasn’t currently getting his hair washed. “Like that one.”

He lets Six towel his hair off, protesting when Six flicks his ears to clear them of water, splashing him in the face. Sitting him down in front of the mirror and putting an old smock around him, Six frowns. “I feel as though one day, I may truly regret trusting you with this job. Your hair gets worse and worse every time I see it. Do you cut it yourself?”

“Now I do,” Siete says, sharpening the scissors idly. “You’re to thank for that.”

“I’d rather not be implicated in your disaster. It looks like it was run through a woodchipper.”

“First off, it’s harder to cut your own hair. And there _is_ a method to this madness.”

“Random hacking with blades hardly constitutes a method.” Still, Six closes his eyes as Siete combs through his hair, sectioning off parts and making it stick up in odd ways to amuse himself. Six sighs as he feels Siete do this, like he always does, but doesn’t say anything else.

The only people whose hair he’s had to cut in his life are Six’s and then, later on, his own; everyone else in the Eternals, both men and women, let their hair grow out, able to cut their fringes themselves. “You could just let it grow out, like Quatre, Uno, and Okto do. It would be less maintenance.”

Six’s voice is barely a low contented rumble when he answers a few seconds later. “Inconvenient at best, dangerous at most.”

“How ‘bout I shave it all off? That’s _real_ low maintenance.”

Six frowns, eyes still closed, and Siete catches the look in the mirror. “...I’ve never seen a bald Erune.”

Squinting his eyes at the mirror, he tries to imagine Six bald. Does that include shaving his ears? Putting the scissors down for a second, he scratches lightly at the base of Six’s ears, suddenly feeling incredibly appreciative of them, moreso than usual. Six leans into the touch. “You know what? I haven’t either. And probably for good reason.” Six hums, frown smoothing out into a more pleased look as Siete continues the action. “Are you listening?”

“No.” An unapologetic smirk plays on his lips.

“O _kay_ _,”_ Siete whines, drawing out the syllable, and he picks up the scissors again.

Siete’s been cutting Six’s hair for years, long before Six gave any sort of indication that he even tolerated Siete’s company, before they’d started quietly dating. When Six had first agreed to join the Eternals, his hair was much longer, grew unevenly around his face and shoulders, making the half-feral edges of his mask even more sharp; when Siete was sitting in his quarters, sewing him the cape that would serve as the uniform for the Eternals, he had burst through the door with the rusty dagger unstrapped from his leg and a hoarse voice.

 _Cut it._ Siete had raised his eyebrows, watched as Six took a stool and sat down in front of the mirror, slamming the dagger onto the table. He still had the mask on, was covered head to toe in black, and Siete put the cape down.

_Are you sure?_

_Don’t question me._ So he didn’t. Watching Six carefully, he made sure every single one of his actions was visible, from him getting up off his bed, to sliding open a drawer for a pair of scissors, to standing behind him and hesitantly running his fingers through Six’s hair.

_How do you—_

_Cut it._ There was clearly no room for any argument, any conversation. Shrugging, he sectioned off Six’s hair, holding a clump off to the side so Six could see.

_How much off—_

_Are you deaf?_

Immediately, Siete cut off a few centimetres, and watched, entranced, as Six slowly relaxed. Siete had absolutely no experience in cutting hair, went to someone else to get his hair cut, but it didn’t seem to bother Six at all—so as long as at the end of the day, his hair was gone. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to make his hair look like it had any sort of order, and he’d been glad that he was almost done sewing Six’s hood so it could cover up the disaster he’d unfortunately made.

 _You’re awful at this._ Six had shaken off the stray bits of hair, running a hand through it—but he had sounded less frantic than he had been at the beginning of the night.

 _I go to someone else for this thing,_ Siete said, raising his hands in defense, _I could direct you—_

 _Enough._ Six had walked out, as quickly as he came.

Siete had Sierokarte direct him to someone that could teach him how to cut hair passably.

It was a good investment, because from that point on, Six would come by every few months without a word and sit himself down in front of the mirror, no matter what Siete was doing, and Siete would stop everything he was doing just to help him out. Over the years, he’d watch the line of tension disappear from Six’s shoulders, hear the way his breathing stopped being so ragged, give him enough space to eventually take his mask off—first partially, then fully. Now, Six no longer jumps at the snip of scissors, the cold brush of metal at the base of his neck, exchanges jokes with him and relaxes into his hands.

It makes him pause, smile at the Six under his hands right now, eyes closed and peaceful, almost as if he were about to sleep. When he finishes, he brushes the stray hair off his shoulders. “Now get to showering while I clean this up. I don’t want any hairs in the bed.”

Six doesn’t run out of the room at the end of these sessions anymore, hasn’t for a long time; he strips down while yawning, tosses his clothes full of stray hairs in the corner, while Siete balls up the old newspapers and throws them in the garbage. Six makes a noise when Siete steals the shower head from him and washes the strays down the drain.

“It’s cold. Give that back.”

Siete puts the shower head above him and chuckles as Six sputters, not even caring that Six swiping at his legs gets him all wet.

 

 


End file.
